The Devil's Ribbon (3 page)
Just as Hatton closed his eyes and fell deeply into a moonlit dream, Mrs Gallant, his landlady, was rapping sharply at his door with that irritating little tap of hers.
‘It’s almost nine o’clock, Professor.’
Damnation, Hatton thought as he leapt out of bed, galvanised by fear of Dr Buchanan’s barking voice, sure to greet him as he entered the hospital director’s dominion, the last and the least.
‘No breakfast, Mrs Gallant. Not today,’ Hatton yelled as he heard a clattering of dishes from behind him and momentarily caught the sweet scent of bacon in the air, knowing he would have to make do with a bitter coffee from the grinder’s stall by the hospital gates.
The Professor headed down Holborn, not waiting for the omnibus,
rushing along Charterhouse Street, on and on, till at last he caught a glimpse of St Paul’s golden dome in the distant haze. Sweating buckets, he could hear in his head his feeble excuses for arriving at the budget meeting … he pulled out his pocket watch … half an hour late.
At the sight of the hospital gates ahead of him, Hatton broke into a run and thought he heard a Special blow a whistle in his direction, but darted into the safety of the vast building, where the entrance hall’s sparkling mirrors showed fleetingly his shirt stuck to his skin, his tie unloosened, his hair all over his face, and as for his hat? His new brown derby? Missing. In short, Professor Hatton was a mess and hardly worthy of a pay rise, if the cut of his trousers was to be judged.
‘Enter,’ said the gruff voice of Dr Buchanan. Hatton stepped into the director’s room in the newly painted South Wing, which was full to bursting with physicians and their unspeakable smugness.
‘Aaah … Professor Hatton. How good of you to join us, at last. But alas, we’ve finished already. In fact, we didn’t have time to discuss
your
particular requirements.’ Hatton’s heart sank because he knew what that meant – budget cuts at the morgue. ‘And anyway you’re wanted elsewhere. Inspector Grey arrived a full fifteen minutes ago and he didn’t come alone. So, off you go, and get freshened up at once. You’re a monster mess, sir. It doesn’t do for St Bart’s professors to present themselves in such a shambles to The Yard. This is the most eminent hospital in London and we have a reputation to uphold. Really, Professor … it doesn’t do at all …’
‘Professor Hatton. What a pleasure, sir. What a pleasure indeed. It’s been far too long. And despite some professional disagreements in the
past, dare I say that I have missed you so? And I’m here because I urgently need your counsel. It’s a very intriguing case …’
The man decked out in a blue waistcoat, tangerine breeches, and a sumptuous tartan coat was clearly no stranger to the morgue. Despite an absence of more than six months, Inspector Jeremiah Grey had positioned himself to make his little speech of ‘rapprochement’ not on Hatton’s chair – which would have been bad enough – but on the Professor’s desk, his legs crossed, just so.
It was true, thought Hatton, that Grey’s predecessor, the late Inspector Adams, and he had never been friends. Indeed, far from it. So, when word came that Adams’s replacement would be a religious man, coming from Cardiff of all places – a city of Methodists, God-fearing, hardworking, straitlaced people – Hatton had heaved a huge sigh of relief. At last, a senior policeman in London they could rely on. But Jeremiah Grey soon proved to be a law unto himself.
The inspector had been at The Yard less than a week when the rumour mill started. First, that this new detective was strongly suspected of planting evidence, and second, that he hadn’t come to London alone.
Hatton had been busy at the slab when he confessed, ‘No, Albert, I haven’t met him officially yet, but it appears he has an assistant with him. An Italian, of all people. A Mr Tescalini, who isn’t on the payroll of The Yard but is some kind of valet to the Inspector.’
Roumande had been eating a jambon sandwich at the time, but stopped mid-bite. ‘A valet, Professor?’ He’d swallowed, mustard smarting his eyes. ‘Isn’t that a little unusual?’
Hatton wiped his hands on a cloth as he answered, ‘It most certainly is. A policeman’s salary is paltry. Even a senior detective like Grey will
earn, what? Three hundred pounds a year at the most, which isn’t enough to keep a personal manservant. And if the stories are true, I’ve heard this Italian carries a gun. Odd for a valet, don’t you think? A valet normally carries a clothes brush, some shaving cream, a diary for keeping appointments, a little money, perhaps.’
‘A gun, you say?’ Roumande was rightly perturbed.
Hatton moved over to the sink to wash himself down. ‘I’ve also heard that the Inspector, far from being the epitome of Christian piety, is rather something else.’ But then Hatton swiftly added, not wanting to jump the gun, ‘But I don’t want to prejudge him based on the usual Smithfield gossip. We must give this Welshman the benefit of the doubt until we make up our own minds, based on the evidence of actually working with him.’
But the ‘evidence’ turned out to be indisputable. As the months wore on – and they had worked together on and off for almost two years now – the Inspector revealed himself to be a man who skated on thin ice, relished it even. Grey was as slippery as an eel and seemed to have his own incomprehensible modus operandi, which involved disappearing witnesses, testimonies lost or slightly tampered with, evidence vanishing before miraculously appearing again with ‘Just in the nick of time, Professor …’ or ‘Like a rabbit from a hat, this one …’ or something along the lines of, ‘Well, you could knock me down with a feather, but when Mr Tescalini went back to the lady’s drawing room, there was this letter knife simply dripping in her husband’s blood. Test it, would you, Hatton?’
The blood, almost certainly a rabbit’s. But as far as Grey’s superiors were concerned – various politicians, the Yard commissioner, Lord this,
and Lord that – this new inspector got results and sent umpteen to the gallows. Crime rates came crashing down, arrests went soaring up whether it was felons, rapists, armed robbers, fraudsters, garrotters – and who could argue with that? Hatton had tried and duly paid for it.
But perhaps it was time, thought Hatton, to let bygones be bygones and start again with a clean slate, if not for his sake then for his department’s. But it wasn’t really any of this history or, indeed, the ornamental draping of a Welsh detective on polished walnut which demanded the Professor’s attention. Hatton had to look twice, but no, he knew he wasn’t mistaken. It was the Inspector’s tie which caught his eye, the pattern, even by the Inspector’s standards, being somewhat unusual.
‘Yes, my dear Professor. You are not mistaken.’ The inspector leant forward. ‘They’re dancing girls and they are definitely cancanning. Mr Tescalini and I recently experienced the delights at a private party in Paris. A case took me there, as a case has brought me here. Monsieur Roumande, be a good fellow and fetch the Professor a chair.’
Hatton didn’t need a chair, waving the offer away; but for politeness’ sake, he ventured, ‘So how is Mr Tescalini? Still working for you, then?’ Hatton couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice, for he loathed the man. Hatton was a scientist, not a phrenologist, and tried not to judge a book by its cover, but Mr Tescalini was no ordinary cover. For a start, the Italian’s countenance was unnaturally pale and his eyes, which were very close together, were always shifting, never resting, never still, as if he was watching out for someone – or something. His form was squat and solid, but not in a reassuring way. More like a primed musket ball, ready to blow.
Grey, ignoring Hatton’s tone, peeled off a lavender kid glove and
answered with a wry smile, ‘Thank you for asking, Hatton. Mr Tescalini is
splendido, bellissimo, magnifico, stupendisimo
.’
‘I see,’ said Hatton, adding, ‘Glad to hear it,’ not really caring either way and quickly turning his attention to a male form laid out on the slab to see at once the feet were slate coloured, as were the hands.
‘Cholera?’ Hatton asked, as it was an obvious question.
‘He was admitted as such, Professor,’ said Roumande.
Hatton turned to Inspector Grey, ‘And this is a
police matter,
Inspector?’
The detective’s face was blank. ‘Please, Professor, just take a look at him. There’s a five-guinea wager at stake here.’
Hatton detected a faint smile under the policeman’s well-brushed moustache, clipped privet-neat against a thin upper lip. Inspector Grey had clearly decided that this body was not so infectious, for his face and mouth were bare to the room. Nevertheless, Hatton rolled back his sleeves, washed his hands, and put on a clean apron, one of many which hung from a set of meat hooks behind the entrance door, and according to hospital procedure, a protective calico mask. Albert Roumande looked at his friend, his eyes peering over his own mask, a scrunch of intelligent lines around them, questioning.
Hatton looked at the corpse, which was in a state of extreme rigor mortis, and recognised him at once, because his face had been on the front cover of
The Times
only days ago. Underneath a film of grey, there was a distinctive, bluish tint to Gabriel McCarthy’s face.
Hatton made a small initial incision to see the blood run freely, and immediately removed his mask. Roumande quickly followed suit, saying in an exasperated tone, ‘The Yard wouldn’t let me take off my
mask until you concurred, Professor, but it’s clearly not cholera. So you see I was right, Inspector.’ Roumande swung around to face the detective. ‘Five guineas, monsieur, and it’s your round.’
Grey’s high-pitched laugh spliced the room. ‘Your diener is quite the betting man, and put a guinea on arsenic, but I upped the stakes a little. As we know, arsenic is a slow poison, administered little by little and manifests itself with cramps, cold sweats, bellyache, and so on. But according to the wife, her husband had shown no signs of being ill. She told me his death was sudden. But I’ll let you play detective, because I need to be crystal clear on this, from the very beginning. You see the man before you? You take my point, Professor?’
Yes, he took the point, because Hatton knew this man. Gabriel McCarthy MP was an Irish Unionist and so considered a friend of the British. The two countries had been forged into one, the Act of Union described in
The Times
as a ‘delightful marriage’ but viewed by many as nothing less than a rape. Emancipation for Catholics was promised but not given, rebellions were quelled with the gun. The Unionists vaguely talked of Repeal but only by legitimate means. But these moderates were the Old Men of Ireland with their aristocratic manners and respect for the Queen. Secret societies with names like The Oak Boys, The White Boys, and Ribbonmen had long since gathered in the bogs and glens of Ireland plotting revenge, but now they had morphed into a hiss on the streets of St Giles, Whitechapel, Soho, Southwark, Saffron Hill – a hiss of Gaelic –
Fenians
.
There was a definite tint to the MP’s face, but it wasn’t the Blue Death. Hatton bent down and smelt the dead man’s mouth. There was no mistaking the sourness, as he announced, ‘It’s strychnine, gentlemen.
Strychnos nux-vomica
, in its purest form. Vile and bitter to the taste, even in minute proportions. Muscular convulsions tighten the neck muscles here’ – Hatton pointed to the area of the throat – ‘leaving this terrible look upon his face as if he has seen something too awful to imagine.’
‘Like he’s seen a ghost?’ asked Inspector Grey.
‘Exactly, Inspector. Death in less than ten minutes. He would have been unable to shout for help almost as soon as he imbibed it. He’d have staggered about the place, crashing into furniture, his back arching into the agony of opisthotonos before he hit the ground, which explains these minor lacerations and bruises to his arms and legs. This bluish tint to the face is not fever of any description. It was his last fight for breath.’
Hatton asked Roumande to turn the gas lamps up and position them directly over the body. The Y cut was quickly made and Hatton was about to wrench back the rib cage when, instead, he slowly lowered his knife and hesitated, feeling the tension, knowing that the rookeries in London were already simmering with Irish unrest, and what he was about to find might tip London into open warfare. A whisper in the confessional, a whistle in the street, or a poster of Gaelic scrawls across the window of a tavern in the Seven Dials. And what would start as a rumour –
murder
– would surely end in more violence still. The murder of a Unionist could act as a trigger for open rebellion. If McCarthy could be so easily killed, why not the others who stood in the way of a liberated Ireland?
‘Get on with it,’ said Grey, impatiently. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Just thinking, nothing more,’ said Hatton.
‘Your lead, Professor,’ said Roumande, peering at the corpse. ‘Although if I may suggest, some intestinal mucosa would tell us for sure. Patrice, leave the blood bucket for now and fetch the Eaton and Spencer.’
How Roumande had secured this magnificent microscope, Hatton didn’t know and he didn’t care to know, as it cost more than half their yearly income. Nut brown and polished to a shine, the instrument was left standing on its own special table, to be used only in matters of forensics.
